


Long Division

by cactusonastair



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusonastair/pseuds/cactusonastair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A baron with divided loyalties to King Stephen and Empress Maud dies, leaving his lands to one and a treasure worth a king's ransom to the other. But the gold is lost en route to the Empress, beginning a struggle in which both sides are willing to do anything - including murder - to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. And one young squire precious to Cadfael and his friends is caught up in it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Division

**Author's Note:**

> This is set two years after the conclusion of the last Cadfael book, _Brother Cadfael's Penance_. The characters and storyworld belong to Ellis Peters; I merely borrow.

"A plague of locusts is upon us, Cadfael!"

Cadfael eyed his visitor, Hugh Beringar, who tended Shropshire for King Stephen as his sheriff, in amusement. He knew too well Hugh's temper, and could, more than any man in the world, more perhaps even than Hugh's dear wife Aline, discern his moods under the impassive countenance, and understand and condone the exclamation that substituted for a more traditional greeting.

"Come, my friend," he said, gesturing towards the stool by the hearth where an ointment sat simmering, wafting its citrus fragrance into the cosy workshop of whose domain he was lord. His assistant, Brother Winfrid, was out delivering medicines to the leper hospital at Saint Giles, so Hugh and he would have precious time to talk without interference. "Take some mulled wine with me and tell me of this curse."

Hugh pulled his stool close, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his shapely hands together against the cold. For winter had come early to the year 1147, and the air bit with a sharp chill.

"Do you know the name Osward of Featherstone?" he asked, gratefully accepting the flagon that Cadfael handed him.

"A rich baron of a neighbouring shire," Cadfael responded promptly, "whose allegiances have wavered several times between Stephen and Maud."

"My heart, it always amazes me how you manage to stay abreast of the secular world from within these monastery walls," Hugh said, amused.

Cadfael took a draught of the spiced wine, felt the welcome warmth flow through his innards. "People of every station of life pass through these walls, Hugh, and not a few of them have need of my meagre talents," he said serenely. "They are voluble enough. They talk, and I listen."

"And listen well, for you are correct, though not indisputably so! You are a few weeks behind the tide. Osward of Featherstone wavers no more," Hugh said, his youthful face turning grave, "but rests securely in the arms of his Maker."

"God rest his soul," Cadfael said, crossing himself. "But what then of his lands and fortune? He has a son, has he not?"

"By blood, but not by affection. Before he died, Osward renounced his son and heir, Osbert, and left all the lands he held in demesne to King Stephen."

Cadfael shook his head. Blood was still blood, ill or no. But it was a common enough story in these divided times! His thoughts flew to his own son, Olivier de Bretagne, of whose existence he had been ignorant for the first five and twenty years of it, but whom he now recognised and acknowledged and took pride in having fathered. Not only a father was he, but a grandfather now. Young Philip de Bretagne would have turned two years of age but a few days ago. It was unlikely that he would ever see Philip or his mother Ermina in this life, for Cadfael was bound to the Abbey now, and Olivier would never put his wife and son into danger by bringing them into enemy lands. Though part of Cadfael ached to see the seed of his seed, part of him was content to know that his line, and the line of Mariam, the kind, proud woman he had loved in Antioch, continued to flourish.

He shook his head to recall himself from the world of reminiscences, and found Hugh gazing upon him with benevolence. He had likely divined the subject of Cadfael's reverie, being able to read the old monk as well as Cadfael understood him. Nor would he object to it, for he loved Olivier after his own fashion, though they were soldiers on opposite sides of the conflict, and, unlike Osward and his sort who changed their loyalties like the weathercock, would stand gallantly true to the last. Curiously, this fact seemed to unite rather than divide them, and they held each other in mutual respect.

"So Osward's allegiances went with Stephen at the last," Cadfael remarked, taking up the thread of the conversation once more.

Hugh shook his head. "So one might think, Cadfael. But when Maurice de Tiretei entered the manor to take charge of it for Stephen's stead, he found the treasury emptied, down to the last groat."

Cadfael leaned forward, eager to hear the tail of the tale. "Thieves?"

"No sign of a ransack." Hugh shrugged. "No, everything was as Osward left it. For he made out his lands to Stephen, but ere he died, he sent the money to Maud. A king's ransom, at least!"

No longer did Stephen need it, as he once had, while chafing in Maud's triumphant grasp. Yet the money would be welcome to his cause, for both factions were emptying the last pennies out of their purses in their pursuit of the crown. Hugh, as the king's man in Shropshire, knew it well, and his face held a wry look of resignation at its loss to his side.

"Then Osward's loyalties were divided to the bitter end," Cadfael mused. "Though one could well argue that Maud had the better of the bargain." Osward of Featherstone had no reputation as a man-at-arms, and his garrison would have been small and untested. And what lands he had, rested where they lay. But Osward's king's ransom would be enough to purchase the loyalty of several companies of Flemish mercenaries, and perhaps through them, the English throne.

That the highest secular office of the land, a title given by God's grace, should be bartered and tussled over like some lowly chattel! Yet it had been so for twelve years, and would surely continue until one of the bitter cousins met their end, for despite the efforts of Robert Bossu and Roger de Clinton to play peacemaker, neither side would condescend to extend the olive branch. Another of those who would have peace, Robert Earl of Gloucester, had passed into the divine realm two months ago, never seeing the truce he sought so long to bring between his half-sister and cousin in this one.

Hugh leaned forward, eyes twinkling, though exasperation played about the sensitive mouth. "She would have," he agreed, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, "were the delivery not thwarted along the way. For the treasure left Featherstone, but never came into the Empress' keeping. And it should have arrived several days since. Maud is in a towering rage, the bargain having been pre-arranged. She expected her coffers to be swollen by now, and was readying another strike against Stephen. But the mercenaries refuse to budge until they are paid, and her plans have gone awry."

Cadfael leaned forward himself, so that they were almost nose-to-nose. "But what of the gold? Treachery? Or bandits?"

"Not a soul knows, save those with their hands on the prize," Hugh laughed. Then his brow knit with concern. "But what does Maud then do, but publicly declare that whichsoever man who brings her the gold, will be awarded a rich demesne of his own, and titles enough to put any nobleman to shame?"

"Hence your swarm of locusts!" Cadfael exclaimed, understanding the import of Hugh's opening gambit at last.

Hugh tipped his head. "Now every opportunistic young lad in Maud's forces will be out seeking his fortune, and some will come here, of that I have no doubt. We are near enough to Staffordshire, and the men to whom Osward entrusted his treasury may easily have crossed our borders."

"But what does Stephen do? He would hardly sit idly by and let this treasure be snatched from within his grasp."

"He orders a search, naturally, but more important is for us to pick off the flies as they come. If one of them should have stumbled across Osward's treasury, so much the better! I have squads of men already on patrol. This may prove an expensive venture for Empress Maud, if we may capture the boldest of her squires as they trickle through our lands. Loyal men are worth more by far than bought mercenaries. And her knights know it. My reports are that many have privately forbidden their men to leave their side, for fear that they are lost on this wild goose chase."

"Wiser they than she!" Cadfael sighed. His thoughts returned to one such knight, for Laurence d'Angers had elevated Olivier to that rank, with the empress' approval, after displaying his steadfast loyalty in the hands of Philip FitzRobert two years ago. He would have his own squires and pages to command now.

"They have taken heed of Stephen's notice that he will no longer ransom enemy soldiers he finds on his lands," Hugh said dryly. "He may not be the finest of strategists, but he knows how to keep his accounts. Every man he takes from her company is worth more than any ransom they would be willing to pay." 

He drained the last of his wine, and stood. "My thanks for your company, old friend. But I must make further preparations to repulse these idealistic young fools, and I can hardly leave so great a task to my serjeant alone. When this new turmoil is over, you must come to dinner with Aline and Giles, now that they are back in the town for the winter. My boy is growing into quite the scamp, and I fear he needs his godfather to see to the health of his soul."

The twinkle in Hugh's eye grew mischievous, and Cadfael could not help but smile. Though the spiritual wellbeing of his godson was a responsibility he took seriously, it was a responsibility that called him out of the cloister far more often than some, like Prior Robert, would deem fit within the confines of the Rule. But that was Prior Robert, and Abbot Radulfus was a different matter, and he the final adjudicator. "I doubt that Father Abbot would refuse the justice of such a request. Go, Hugh, and do your duty. Convey my affections to Aline and Giles, and tell them I will dine with them ere the month is out!"

* * *

The sun was at its zenith when Hugh took his leave. After the brief office of Sext, Cadfael readied himself for a visit to the riverside. The nip in the air robbed the sun of its warmth even at midday, telling of an early frost to come. There would be precious few more opportunities to collect the last herbs of the season. Ordinarily he would leave this task to Winfrid, decades younger and more agile by far, but his assistant's errand to Saint Giles would occupy him till nightfall, and the frost would not wait.

Besides, he was not so decrepit yet that he could not gather his own herbs, though winter was settling upon him. There was some life left in these old bones, and youth enough in his mind to exult in the beauty of nature.

He was on his knees an hour later, humming a Welsh tune to himself while he dug with a small trowel, when he first heard the commotion. He sat back on his haunches and cupped his ear, recognising the sound familiar from his youth of the baying of hounds, accompanied by the shouts of angry men. Before long, a figure whipped by him, a man - no, a boy - running for his life, his long black cloak streaming after him in his flight.

He gave the monk no heed, but leapt in a graceful dive into the river. Cadfael drew back from the splash, and was soon beset by the dogs, straining against their leashes, sniffing in vain for their underwater prey. Two of them, led by four men whose costume marked them as men-at-arms under Hugh's command.

"'E's in the river!" the leader shouted, seeing the black of the cloak travel swiftly with the current. "Loose your arrows!"

Their bows were already drawn, and before Cadfael could make protest, the arrows were cocked and fired. Surely one of them would have hit, for the cloak made a clear target and Hugh trained his men well, yet the body did not surface, but continued to rush downstream.

"After 'im! Don't let 'im get away!" The squad clattered off after their quarry, returning peace once more to this stretch of the Severn.

Cadfael watched them go, then placidly drew himself up, and made his way down to the riverbank, in time to see the boy breach the surface for a desperate breath. The water must be frigid, since the boy made immediately for the bank, and pulled himself onto the shore, gasping for air.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned quickly, hands ready to strike before he saw Cadfael's brown habit. He put down his fists, and stared wide-eyed at his captor, clearly astonished that the trick with his cloak should have been seen through so easily by one whose worldly experience should have been inferior even to his.

"Come with me, my lad," said Cadfael, looking the boy up and down with an expert eye. He could feel the boy's body start to shiver under his shoulder. He needed warmth, and that his drenched clothes and the cool air would not give him. There was a fresh gash on his upper arm, too, visible through a rent in his sleeve, likely from an arrow fired during the chase.

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Cadfael continued, hand implacably fast on his captive's shoulder, "Your clothes can dry by my brazier, and that cut needs looking at before it festers."

The boy gave one last squirm, and finally nodded in resignation. "Yes, Brother, I will come." Cadfael took that as an unspoken oath that he would not attempt an escape, and released his grip. The boy immediately took a step away, but made no move to get any further, but fell to trotting a respectful distance behind, perhaps seeing that the protection of this curious monk was the best chance he had to make away with his freedom.

"My name is Cadfael, and my workshop is but a quarter mile from here, by the river in the Abbey gardens," Cadfael said, pointing. "And what is your name, lad?"

"They call me Wilfred." Cadfael waited for an additional appellation, but having revealed one good Saxon name, the boy's lips sealed shut without giving another. Yet his clothes, fine though bedraggled, must be those of a knight's squire. The long sword hanging at his hip added its thread to the same tune. And his master, Cadfael reckoned, must be one of those who served Empress Maud, and this foolish youth one of those who sought to win honour and lands for himself by bringing Osward of Featherstone's treasure back to his lady.

Sixteen years on this earth, Cadfael judged, and therefore his foolishness must be forgiven - yet there was no foolishness to the boy's looks. He had a solemn mien, devoid of all frivolity - little to laugh about in his present circumstances, true! But there was a gravity in his brow, in the set of his lip, and he walked erect, head held proudly, though the rest of his tall, lanky frame was by now visibly shivering.

They made short work of the distance, and Cadfael fell to attending his second visitor of the day. He bade Wilfred remove his clothes and dry them by the fire. Cadfael had learnt while clumsy Brother Oswin had been his assistant to keep an old habit in the workshop in case of accidents with the fire, and he handed it to the boy now, to wear in his clothes' stead. He heated up more wine by the fire, and let the boy warm himself from within. Now it was time to see to the wound. Winfrid had just taken the last of his best salve to Saint Giles. Fortunately, he had the crucial ingredients at hand, and could make more afresh.

"You're in luck, my boy, these are the last comfrey leaves I'll gather before winter sets in, and an uncommonly good salve they make too, just right for that nasty gash on your arm. There's water in the bucket over there, and a cloth. Mind you clean that cut well, while I make it."

"Yes, Brother," Wilfred said, obediently enough, and moved to do Cadfael's bidding. He removed the borrowed robe from his shoulders, letting the folds gather about his waist, baring his muscular arms and lithe torso. He winced a little as he pressed the cloth to his wound and dabbed away the blood, but otherwise kept an interested eye on Cadfael's movements as he ground the leaves down to a poultice.

"Now, Winfrid harvested some marsh mallow root not two days ago..." Cadfael muttered to himself, looking around for it.

"Here, Brother." The boy handed him a bowl filled with the branching, golden-brown roots.

"Why, so it is!" Cadfael shot a curious look at his charge. Most boys would not know this from hollyhock, and yet... 

"My master has knowledge of the art, and he taught me some of what he knew," Wilfred answered the unasked question.

"Good for him," Cadfael said heartily. "Well, if you're done with that water, rinse these off, and I'll finish the salve."

Wilfred set to work with a will, though not once did the frown on his face waver as he concentrated on his task. He handed the fruit of his labours to Cadfael when he was done, and turned to warm himself by the fire, affording Cadfael his first glimpse of the boy's back.

"Saints above, child, how did you come by _these_?" For Wilfred's back was criss-crossed with nasty thin stripes, the unmistakeable work of a lash wielded in punishment. They were a week old or more, judging by the dried blood, but still flared an angry red. They should be healing by now - the boy was obviously hale, and his young flesh would easily knit together over old scars, given time to rest - but clearly he had not given his body such consideration.

Even now, as he twisted his neck around to survey his injuries, Wilfred said coolly, "What, that? It is nothing."

Nothing but a good twenty lashes and more, thought Cadfael, and lashes that cut deep, too. "But who is it who has ill-used you so?"

"Ill-use? Nay, it was well-deserved," said Wilfred, and to Cadfael's surprised pleasure, the boy's unnaturally solemn countenance relaxed into a sudden, wry grin. He was a comely lad, in truth, with a twinkle in his brown eyes and a dimple in his pale cheeks - when he chose to show them, for already they had faded and his solemn mien returned. "And not the work of my master, either," he added in hasty afterthought, as though reluctant to allow Cadfael to think for even one moment that his lord could be the source of his suffering.

"Your master is a good man?" asked Cadfael, dipping once more into the jar of ointment, preparing to dab it on the nearest of the lash marks.

"The best and kindest who ever lived," declared the boy. "But I pray you, Brother - these wounds need no tending to."

"Surely they hurt!"

"They are nothing," Wilfred repeated, and wrapped the robe about himself to hide the marks.

"Very well," Cadfael said with begrudging sigh, "they will not fester, at least. Your master taught you to keep wounds clean, at the very least! And who am I, to keep a penitent from taking comfort in the mortification of his flesh? But let me treat that cut, now that my salve is ready."

The boy drew a clear line between the wounds on his back and the one on his arm, for he shed his covering once more and docilely allowed Cadfael to apply his salve, making sure all the while to keep the marks of his punishment away from prying eyes. "I thank you, Brother!" he said gravely, when the task was done, and stooped to feel the clothes that lay drying.

"They will take more time than that, lad. Sit down, and tell me about yourself."

"I have not the time. They will be after -"

A peremptory knock came at the workshop door, and the boy's eyes shot wide like those of a hunted rabbit.

"Stay within," Cadfael said in a low voice. "I will see who it is."

The boy withdrew into the shadows, as Cadfael opened the door. "Hugh! You are back soon." And with company, he saw - the same four men who had hunted Wilfred earlier in the afternoon. His heart sank.

"Yes, and on official business, I'm afraid." Hugh looked honestly apologetic. "My men were chasing a boy earlier, but lost him in the pursuit. They say you were in the vicinity. Now, I have to ask, did you see this boy?"

"I did indeed," Cadfael admitted, his mind working furiously to think of an escape route for his charge. "He ran past me, and into th river. But did he not swim downstream?"

"Apparently not, because only his cloak was retrieved when they caught up to it. Did you see him when he emerged from the river?"

Two years ago, Cadfael would have let his glib tongue lead him out of such an affray, since it was for a good cause, but this was Hugh, who knew too much of his disposition to take in waifs and strays, and besides, he had strengthened his resolve to keep his monastic vows since being given pardon for thoroughly breaking them by quitting the abbey and his brethren without permission. But there was little time for prevarication in any case, because Wilfred had emerged, pushing past Cadfael where he stood protectively in the doorway. Run he would from his captors, but he scorned to conceal himself behind an elderly monk.

"That's 'im!" one of the men cried, and rushed forward to take hold of his prey.

Hugh held up a hand, stopping his advance, and looked Wilfred up and down. The lad drew himself up, easily looking Hugh in the eye, for the sheriff of Shropshire was compactly built and Wilfred was easily his height and more. He was clad once again in his damp finery, choosing to be taken in his own guise rather than Cadfael's tattered spare robe.

"I believe, my lord, that it is I whom you seek," he said, his voice holding steady despite his chill.

Cadfael could see that Hugh was favourably impressed with his captive's noble bearing. A pity to clip the wings of so fine a fledgling, who faced a future of long imprisonment with courage and grace, but Hugh had his duty. "I believe so, though I know you only by your crime, and not by your name."

The boy gave a brief, courtly bow. "My name is Wilfred," he declared.

"And your master?"

Somehow, Wilfred managed to draw himself up even more proudly. "My master," he announced, voice ringing proudly through the Abbey gardens and up to the heavens, "is Sir Olivier de Bretagne."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Cadfael fic, so I appreciate any and all concrit and comments! Please let me know if I have made any glaring errors.


End file.
